


Striketober 2020

by Clare_nightly



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Striketober | Cormoran Strike Fictober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clare_nightly/pseuds/Clare_nightly
Summary: My attempt at Striketober! Not in any particular order, but I’ll do my best to complete as many prompts as I can.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 21
Kudos: 65





	1. “Is everything okay?”

Robin woke from her nightmare with a start, sitting up in bed. For a moment, it was hard to separate dream from reality, and she looked frantically around the room, casting panicked glances in the shadows for would-be assailants. She moaned involuntarily, trying to pull herself out of the dream. 

Strike snorted, stirring at the absence of her body and the cold draft it allowed under the covers. “Whassa’ matter?” he slurred, his voice thick with sleep. She didn’t answer. 

“Robin, is everything okay?” he asked, rubbing his face, willing himself to consciousness. The room was dark, and the streets below quiet, which signified very early morning. His body rejected the notion of waking at this early hour.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, her hand on her chest as she tried to calm herself. Strike noted that she was breathing heavily, and concern acted like a shot of caffeine to his sleep-thick brain, clearing away the rubble. He waited, giving her time, his hand idly rubbing small circles on her back. 

“I’m fine,” she repeated with more conviction a few moments later, though it seemed to be more for her sake than Strike’s. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he could see a light sheen of sweat on her alabaster skin. 

“Nightmare?” he asked, already knowing the answer. She nodded slowly , fidgeting with her hands. He grunted sympathetically, sitting up in bed. Her skin was cold as he pulled her in, and he shivered. 

“Does it--does it ever go away?” she asked, afraid of the answer. His body, solid and warm, was acting as a buffer against the fear that lingered in her thoughts. 

He hesitated, thinking of last week, when he’d nearly been hit by a negligent lorry while driving the BMW. “No,” he answered truthfully. “It doesn’t.” 

She smiled, her eyes watery. Strike kissed the top of her hair, breathing in the scent that had become so familiar of late. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,”

“No apologies necessary,” he whispered, and as an afterthought, added “D’you want a cup of tea?”

“No, I think I just want to try to sleep,” she said, slowly easing herself back into the bed. He fell back with her, reflexively gathering her into his arms. 

“Cormoran?” 

“Yeah?” He was struggling to stay awake now, with her warm body molded pliantly onto his. 

“Thank you,” 

“S’nothing, love you too,” he mumbled, slipping into sleep, completely unaware of his unsolicited confession. 

Robin smiled, and let the feeling of warmth engendered by his words diffuse through her, chasing away the last vestiges of her nightmare.


	2. “What are you smiling about?”

Strike sighed, running his hand through his dense curls. He’d spent over two hours poring over the stack of files left by their newest client for review, and had relatively nothing to show for it. Deciding that he’d earned a biscuit, he left the inner office to pilfer some from Robin’s secret stash. 

With a crash, Robin herself burst into the office, letting the door slam behind her. She looked lovely, her cheeks flushed from the cold and golden hair tousled, her pink lips curved into a grin that did strange things to his insides. Strike let his hands fall back to his sides, trying not to look guilty of biscuit-thieving. 

“What are you smiling about?” he asked, in an attempt to distract her from noticing what he was up to. 

“You’re so. . .burly. So very very burly,” she giggled, swaying and catching herself on the doorframe. “Thas want Michelle says. Burly.” 

He raised his eyebrows, feeling oddly pleased, and amused by the fact that Robin was clearly very inebriated. “Fancy a cup of tea?” 

“Go on, then,”

Robin plopped down on the sofa, which emitted its standard farting noise, causing her to dissolve into fits of laughter. Strike watched as the water boiled, fascinated by this side of his partner that he’d not yet scene. 

“But seriously,” she began some minutes later, her words broken by the last bits of mirth escaping, “You really are, you know,”

He carefully handed her the mug, making sure she had a firm grasp before letting go, relishing the accidental brushing of their fingers. Their eyes met, and Strike felt a strong desire to find out how soft her curved lips were. 

“I’m really what?” he asked, his voice low. 

She leaned in, with the air of revealing a great secret. “Tall,” She resumed laughing, spilling a bit of tea on her shirtsleeve. Strike laughed too, both relieved and disappointed that the moment had passed. He sat with her while she sipped her tea, and took the cup immediately when she started to yawn and lean back onto the sofa. He stood, intent on doing the washing up. 

“Handsome, too.” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “Nice curls. . .” 

Strike felt the corners of his lips twitch as he placed the mug in the sink.


	3. “Don’t move,”

“Well, what d’you reckon?” she asked bitterly, letting all of the frustration she’d been feeling since her birthday show in her voice. “Is it better to continue on as we are, pretending that we’re just really good work mates? Or perhaps we should start dating other people, so that we can really put a seal on each other’s misery?”

“Christ--that’s not what I want—”

“Then tell me, what do you want? Use your bloody words for once—”

“I want you, God knows I want you Robin. Is that what you wanted to hear?” he roared, furious at her and at himself. “I want you and I want the agency. I just can’t—if it goes to shit, I’ll lose every good thing in my life. Every single thing, including you. And I’m too fucking old to recover from that,” he finished with finality. His rational side gave him a pat on the back, but that did little to overcome the disappointment, and, to his surprise, the deep sadness that was quickly overtaking him. Why did life always have to be so complicated, he wondered, not for the first time.

Robin shook her head sadly. “See? You’re choosing the easy way—what you think will be the easy way out. The safe way. But it won’t work like that. When have you—when have we—ever done the safe, sensible thing?  
And did you ever once consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it won’t go to shit?” She laughed, somewhat disbelievingly. Christ, Strike, I’m not even asking for forever, I’m asking for right now. And you can’t be bothered to find out whether or not it will work. It’s rather ridiculous, actually. Doesn’t jive with the detective I know,” she paused, staring at Strike, whose mouth was gaping in disbelief. She plowed on, relishing the feeling of getting everything on the table, at last.

“Because if I know one thing about you, Strike, it’s that you can’t bear not to know,” she finished quietly, with the slight air of having laid down a winning hand. “You always have to find out for yourself.”

Strike looked down at her. Robin stared back, defiant, with the barest hint of a smirk. “Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice rough. Taken aback, she did as he asked, her heart beating wildly. For a split second, he wondered if it wasn’t too late to stop, too late to put the fences back up, to politely ask her to leave so that they could continue to look one another in the eye at the office. As if she could sense his uncertainty, her gaze faltered, flitting to the floor.

Strike crushed his lips to hers, stifling the small gasp she made at his contact. He let his hand slide up to cup the base of her head, curling his fingers into her thick hair as he’d wanted to do for ages. There was the distinct sense of having let go of something, something that had been weighing him down for years. He moved closer, pressing his body into hers.

“What are you doing?” she gasped without thinking, pulling back from his kisses to look him in the eyes. Her body was in a state of pleasurable shock, and she vaguely—hopefully--wondered if she’d worn her one pair of lacy knickers today. 

“Finding out,” he whispered, and pulled her in.


	4. “Don’t come in!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this as a sequel to “What are you smiling about?”. :)

Someone banged on the glass. “We’re closed,” Robin groaned, pulling the covers over her eyes. Not covers, she realized foggily. Coat. Strike’s coat. She was still in the office. “Saturday,” she added, to whatever client had the audacity to show up to the office at this ungodly hour.

“Robin, it’s Strike,” he yelled. “You decent?”

She sat up quickly at the sound of his voice, and immediately regretted it. It felt like someone was taking a hammer to her temples, and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Vague memories of music, drinks, and Michelle flitted through her aching head, and she struggled to remember how she had ended up at the office.

“Don’t come in!” she managed to shout, albeit weakly. “Gimme a moment,”

“Right,” he responded, an odd note of cheerfulness in his voice.

Robin unwillingly threw the warm coat off and was both relieved and chagrined to see that she was still dressed in the previous night’s outfit of dark jeans and bodysuit. Becoming acutely aware of the metal underwire of her bra digging into her skin, she pushed herself off the couch and walked slowly into the inner office, shutting the door behind her in case Strike became impatient to enter. Gingerly, she pulled off her jeans and top, slipping into the comfortable yoga pants and sweater she kept tucked away for surveillance. She sighed in relief, and ran her fingers through her hair, untangling knots. Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get without the loo, she reluctantly walked back to the outer office door, and let Strike in.

He held up a sack of bacon rolls and two coffees in way of greeting. “Morning,” he half-sang, pushing past her into the office. “Brought breakfast, and coffee. Thought you could use it after last night,” he grinned.

Robin stared at him. “Um, thank you, that’s very thoughtful of you,” she said slowly, confused by this unexpected show of forethought, which was most unlike her partner. He waved her off.

“Really just using your hangover as an excuse to ignore the veg bacon in my fridge and eat a proper breakfast,”  
Robin laughed, and winced as her head pounded in response to this early morning mirth. She popped some paracetamol and joined Strike, who had begun to lay out their breakfast on the office desk. They ate in companionable silence.

“So,” Strike began some minutes later, pondering something invisible on the ceiling as he chewed his breakfast. “I need your opinion,”

Robin raised her eyebrows, chewing the last of her roll.   
“Go on, then,”

“Thinking about shaving my head,” he said matter of factly. “Tired of the maintenance,” he patted himself on the back mentally for keeping a straight face.

She snorted, unable to help herself. “No, absolutely not,” she paused, worrying that she’d been rude. “I mean, I suppose you would look more intimidating, but I don’t think that’s strictly necessary,”

He nodded seriously, pretending to consider her words. “So you think my hair’s fine the way it is? Curls and all?”

She eyed him, confused by this uncharacteristic request for validation. “It’s absolutely fine,” They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their coffee.

“Y’know, while we’re on the subject of self-improvement,” he added mischievously. “I think it’s time I lost some weight. Been told that I’m burly. Very burly, in fact,” He looked down in mock sadness at the remnants of his third bacon roll. “Suppose that means I’ll have to say goodbye to these lovelies. Starting tomorrow,” He finished the roll with gusto.

Robin scrunched her eyebrows in confusion, picking up on his teasing undertone, but unable to identify its cause. He burst out laughing at her face, unable to help himself.

“Think, Ellacott. I’ll give your inebriated brain a minute or two to figure it out,” he teased, moving to throw away their breakfast wrappings. Robin did as he asked, too tired to argue. A more thorough rundown of the previous night’s events played in her mind, and she gasped, mortified at remembering what she said stumbling into their office. She let her face fall into her hands, intent on hiding the blush creeping into her cheeks. Strike chortled, giving her a gentle pat on the back.

“Handsome,” she groaned, regretting every glass of wine consumed last night.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been called worse, and by women far less beautiful than you,” he assured her, grinning. “There, that evens the score, doesn’t it? Would hate for a partner to have something on the other. Bad for business,” Robin stared at him, open mouthed. He winked and walked into the inner office, whistling.


	5. “Want some company?”

“Want some company?” a throaty, unfamiliar voice asked. He looked up from his pint. It belonged to a woman, and a rather beautiful one at that, his fuzzy brain noted. Dark curls and big, brown eyes. Sexy smile. Not too short. 

“Waitin’ fer someone,” he mumbled, slumping back into his seat and desiring nothing more than to be alone. 

“You sure, love?” she purred, sidling next to him at the bar, her hand on his arm. She had long fingernails, he noticed, and he wrinkled his nose. Hard to keep clean. 

“He’s sure,” a familiar voice responded with firmness, and he felt the woman’s hand fall away. Robin’s purse appeared on the bar next to his fourth--or was it fifth?--pint. Robin, he thought. Blue eyes. Golden hair. He didn’t mind her being here. He raised his glass to her purse, and took a drink. They could be alone together. Robin waited for him to finish, simultaneously amused and annoyed. 

“You ready to go?” she asked. He nodded slowly. She helped him off of the barstool.

“Robin,” he asked, struggling to light a cigarette as they stepped outside the pub. The desire for solitude had faded in her warm presence. 

“Yeah?” 

“‘ppreciate the company,” 

“Anytime,” she replied softly, steadying his walk with her arm in his.


	6. “What time is it?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insomnia + Strike

Despite the fact that years of military service had given him the ability to fall asleep almost anywhere, at anytime, Strike found himself staring at the ceiling of his bedroom in mild, exhausted frustration. He had lain awake for almost two hours already, thinking of cases, of tasks, counting sheep—with nothing to show. 

Strike sighed, and rolled over in bed, molding himself to his partner’s warm body. He had tried to avoid waking her, but the sound of her steady breathing had become almost annoying as the minutes passed and he continued struggling to sleep. She stirred at the contact, and he felt perverse pleasure at waking her, at having someone with whom to share his insomnia. 

“What time is it?”Robin mumbled, her voice slow and softened by sleep. He loved these moments, suspended halfway between waking and dreaming. 

“Early. Late,” Strike whispered, gently nipping her ear and trailing kisses down the side of her neck. “Can’t sleep,” he added, in way of explanation. 

“And kissing me is supposed to help with that?” She teased, slightly more awake, pushing her body to his, moving her hips. He groaned, cupping her breasts and pulling her in closer. 

“You know I always fall asleep after,” he murmured, breath hot in her ear. Robin shuddered. “You wear me out, Ellacott.” 

She rolled over in his arms to face him, and he could feel her smiling despite the darkness. “I think you’re coping just fine,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his.


End file.
